


I don't sleep 'til it's light

by zanzibar



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Outtakes, Phone Sex, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:19:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanzibar/pseuds/zanzibar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I can send you shirts from after I workout,” John flashes his quicksilver grin, “they’ll really smell like me.”</p>
<p>In which Skype rules the day and John is surprised.</p>
<p>Just a little outtake from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/946271">Our Hearts Beat Time Out
</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	I don't sleep 'til it's light

**Author's Note:**

> Because this didn't actually fit in the original story.
> 
> Title janked again from Wolf Parade. Because consistency.

“Wait, what are you wearing,”

Sam’s laptop is on the counter, John’s face on the screen is shadowed by his dim bedside lamp while Sam digs around for a bottle of water in the fridge, “we aren’t having phone sex yet you know." Sam chides him. "And this is a video phone call, which is why you can see me instead of just hearing me.”

John smiles distractedly and looks more closely at the screen. “Is that my shirt,” he asks suspiciously.

“Umm yes,” Sam unscrews the top of his water bottle and rests a hip against the counter. Sometimes when they’re on Skype he tries to pretend that they’re both actually standing in the kitchen having this discussion. It mostly doesn’t work.

“I’m pretty sure you stood in the doorway of the master bath in your condo and watched me pack this exact shirt dude,” Sam can picture it without really any effort, John in jeans and a polo, hair still damp from the shower and his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth while Sam pulled 2 tshirts out of John’s hamper and a plaid button down out of his closet.

“I didn’t,” John trails off, distracted when Sam turns around again to throw away the empty water bottle and turn off the light over the stove.

“You didn’t,” Sam prompts as he picks up the laptop off the counter and makes his way down the hall.

“I just figured you were always wearing an Oilers shirt,” John protests, laughing a little, “I know you have like ten million and the colors are the same, and the logos are both round and honestly most of the time I’m looking at your face not at what you’re wearing.”

Sam grins and sets the laptop down on his bed before crawling in after it.

“So is it just that I’m wearing your clothes or is it seeing your name on me,” Sam asks slyly. “Because something about it is doing it for you.”

“I’m pretty sure it isn’t actually supposed to be that hot,” 

“But you like it right?” Sam raises an eyebrow and settles back against the pillows.

Skype helps. But honestly they do this on the phone and sometimes in a series of text messages that are a scary combination of totally embarrassing and razor-sharp hot. All Sam really needs is the knowledge of how John kisses and what John’s hands feel like on him and what John’s dick feels like in him and to be honest they’ve been together for almost ten years at this point. Sam has that knowledge. In the absence of actual in-the-flesh-John, his imagination can do the rest.

“I thought about you last night,” John’s voice is quiet, one hand behind his head the other resting low on his stomach.

“I think about you every night,” Sam shoots back, “jerk.”

“But specifically,” John admits, “more specifically than usual.”

“I’m going to need a little more information,” Sam slides a hand along the waistband of his shorts. “Specifically.”

“You in my bed,” John’s voice is low and easy, nothing to betray the hand that’s sliding across the fabric of his quickly hardening dick, “having days with you here to do everything I want, to keep you here and spread you out and mark you up,”

Sam slides the tshirt up to thumb at his own nipples and cracks a grin when John’s eyes widen appropriately. “So I’m thinking about you, wearing my marks, remembering that you’re mine, and god Sam there you are, wearing my name on your back just like, fuck,” John plants his feet on the mattress and arches up into his hand, “just like you’re mine.”

Sam moans shakily at that and gestures with one hand at the glowing screen, “Pants off, I want to see, I want to watch you touch yourself while you think of me,” John gasps a little and shoves and kicks at his shorts until he can flip them off the end of the bed.

He wraps his hand back around his dick and watches while Sam shimmies out of his shorts and yanks the tshirt over his head.

“I was thinking about you earlier,” Sam admits as he wraps a hand around himself and tries to match John’s easy rhythm. “I was sitting on the couch watching Sportscenter and all of sudden all I can think about is you fucking me.”

The more he thinks about it the more Sam can’t stop imagining it. He knows what John’s hips feel like shifting below him, what his hands feel like wrapped around his waist and reaching around to stretch his rough palms across Sam’s spread thighs.

“I like you over me,” John admits, “under me too,” he shrugs. “Just you honestly.”

Sam nods in agreement and shifts his hips against the bed. “Close,” he admits breathlessly, gratified when John nods in agreement.

“I want to touch you,” John cups his balls and rolls his head on the pillow toward the screen, “everywhere,” he draws a deep breath, “all the time.”

It’s not supposed to be that that sends Sam flying over the edge. But of course it is, it’s not thinking about riding John on the couch or sucking marks across his bare chest. It’s John’s quiet admission that he wants Sam all the time that sends him spiralling over the edge.

Thankfully John’s digging his heels into his mattress and arching into his own hand and coming too.

* * * 

“I’m trying to decide how much hotter our clothes exchange is knowing that you’ve totally jerked off while wearing like half my wardrobe,” John’s voice is quiet, more tired now that they’re cleaned up and tucked under the covers in their respective beds, the dark circles under his eyes less shadows and more an indicator of the grind of the NHL season.

“It isn’t always like that,” Sam protests, “mostly it’s that you aren’t here and I miss you and the shirts smell like you.”

“I can send you shirts from after I workout,” John flashes his quicksilver grin and Sam smiles helplessly back, “they’ll really smell like me.”

“Wait, we swap tshirts, so what do you do with mine,” Sam wraps himself around a pillow, feeling John’s name and number again stretch across his back.

John smirks a little and rolls over to reach along the side of his bed to produce one of Sam’s shirts, folded neatly and encased in a gallon-sized ziplock bag.

“The smell lasts longer when it’s bagged up,”

“So wait,” Sam sits up a little in bed, “you keep my shirt hermetically sealed in a ziplock bag, I just wear your shirts to sleep in and I’m the one who’s getting mocked here.”

“Empirical evidence suggests that you didn’t exactly get mocked so much as you got off Samwise,” John smirks shooting a glance off to the side where Sam knows the hamper of dirty laundry sits.

Sam buries his head in his pillow and snorts.

* * * 

Eight days later he gets a padded envelope in the mail, there’s no return address but John’s handwriting is almost as familiar as his own at this point. The envelope is floppy, and whatever is inside has succumbed to gravity and slid to the end.

He rips it open standing in the kitchen still wearing his winter jacket, snow melting off his shoes. Inside are 2 tshirts and a pillowcase tucked carefully in a ziplock bag. There’s a hot pink sticky note tucked in the ziplock bag along with the navy striped pillowcase.

_The internet says this is better than a shirt._

There’s a hilariously messy scrawled heart in the bottom corner of the note and Sam absolutely does not tuck the entire note behind his drivers license in his wallet. He’s just storing it there temporarily while he strips the pillowcase off his favorite pillow and replaces it.


End file.
